


two times baz kissed a boy and one time it mattered

by madwithmissing



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: 2+1 - Freeform, Canon Compliant, Character Study, Fluff, M/M, Yearning, classic lit references, dorian gray reference, gatsby reference, i mean i know simon was baz's first kiss, i've never done one of these so hopefully its decent, maurice reference, pretend that's not the case
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-13
Updated: 2020-12-15
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:29:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28053204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madwithmissing/pseuds/madwithmissing
Summary: "It was one of those rare smiles with a quality of eternal reassurance in it, that you may come across four or five times in life." But, with Snow, you come across it weekly. He’s special. Chosen.orthrough the years, baz has tried to kiss other people without thinking about simon. he's failed every time.
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Original Male Character(s), Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 9
Kudos: 76





	1. one

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know this isn't entirely canon because simon was baz's first kiss but i honestly don't care about canon. also, this chapter is slightly heavy on the gatsby references, but it'll make sense without that context anyway.

I’ve never been the type of kid to throw tantrums. I probably did as a baby, probably wailed and threw myself on the floor and waited for someone to pick me up and coddle me. It’s a  _ thing _ babies do, isn’t it?

There’s no one to pick me up and coddle me anymore. I’m not sure if my father ever did that and there’s no mother to fill the void. So, I keep my head down and wear my restrictive clothing and eat my vegetables and I don’t make a sound.

However true all of that is, I  _ really  _ want to throw a tantrum now. It’s the beginning of summer and I’ve hardly even adjusted to being back home and my father is insisting that we go to the club (this prestigious estate where all the Old Families go to sit around when they’re not making a fuss about something or buying a new private island). Whenever we go, father makes us wear ridiculous outfits; the whole sweater vest, khaki trousers ordeal. (It’s my own personal hell.) Then, the kids and I have to sit around and stare at the wall as the adults mingle.

And at this moment there is not a single thing I want to do more than flop onto my ridiculous bed and curl up. Not only am I tired physically from unpacking my things (magic never quite puts them back the way I want), but I’m emotionally exhausted. I know I sound ridiculous and twee, but I don’t have the energy to care at the moment. This year was  _ hard _ , draining, excessively tortuous, all those delightful things.

But, instead, I’m standing in the drive and trying to get comfortable in my new oxford shoes.

“Get in the car, Basilton,” my father snips and I obey. (I’m the family’s dog.)

The moment my arse hits the seat, my brain goes flying. I’m not in the car anymore (I truly do not want to be, so this isn’t a hard transition to make), but I’m back in my room at Watford. I’m sitting on my bed and I’m staring at the ground and I’m running a hand through my hair and hey, I know this moment. I breathe out slowly and stand as the door starts to creak and I know what’s going to happen next, so I force my mind away. I do  _ not  _ want to see him right now. (Not in my mind, nor anywhere else.) 

So, I go to the pitch. We’re playing the older boys and I’m running and the wind is blowing my hair back and I see the ball in front of me. My leg is extending, my body straightening, I can  _ feel  _ the ball against my foot. And then, grass. An ache in my side. Someone has barreled into me, knocking me down. So, I’m not going to get that goal, huh. I turn over, face the sky, and a boy comes running up to me, sticks his hand out. He’s grinning at me, but not in a malicious way. More in a genuinely kind way. It makes me want to throw up. (Though that could just be the pain in my side.)

As I take his hand, though, I realize how ridiculously fit he is. It doesn’t bother me in the slightest and I don’t think about it more. “Thanks,” I mutter, not meeting his eyes and he chuckles a bit.

“Alright,” he breathes and runs off to join the game.

Again, I do  _ not  _ think about how fit he is, but my eyes keep finding him in the bustling crowd of boys anyway. My body cannot stop betraying me.

At this point in the memory, my brain makes the decision to cut me off from staring at this bloke and now I’m back in my room. The door is opening. I try as hard as I can not to reexperince this. I open my eyes, look out the car window at the passing trees, bite my lip to try to wake myself up. Nothing works. I have to live this.

I remember looking up and, yes, there he is. Golden-haired, out-of-breath, grinning Simon Snow. He doesn’t even look at me as he goes to sit on his bed, clothes strewn over it, on their way to his trunk. It’s the end of the year, we’re meant to be packing up and he doesn’t look sad in the slightest.

And he doesn’t look at me.

Not that I want him to. (I want him to.) It’s just… he hasn’t stopped following me around this year. He’s been at my heels nonstop. (Snow really  _ is  _ a dog.) 

Most of the time, I despise this attention. I need my space and I need air and I need a bubble and whatever shit people usually say. Mostly, though, I need to not think about Snow. It’s only been a matter of months since my head thought it’d be a dandy idea to start opening doors, to gift me with the information that I’m in love with him. And he won’t even do me the decency of letting me repress it.

And, now, I think his ignoring me is even more offensive, rubbing it in that he doesn’t  _ need _ to think about me, that he doesn’t ache like I do. 

Oh, Snow, I wish you knew how badly I ache.

He smiles at nothing, at the ceiling, and I watch him breathe. I envy so much of him; this carefree, untouchable smile, however, is unbearable. I wish he would stop. 

No, I don’t. I wish he would keep on grinning and turn to me and breathe out again, like he’s finally found air. He’s so beautiful.

“Tyrannus Basilton,” I hear from far outside of my room. I blink and there’s my father, standing outside of the car, waiting for me to get out. I do as I’m told.

He always calls me something like that: “Basilton”, “Basilton Pitch”, the occasional “Basil” if I’m lucky. Can’t remember the last time he let a “Baz” slip.

We walk into the club as a duo, but he quickly splits from me, going off to conduct some adult conversation of “weather forecasts and passive aggression”, so I go to find a seat in a vacant room. I find one, a room filled with loveseats and the moment I hit the chair, I peel off my sweater vest and undo a couple buttons on my shirt, try to breathe. I look in the mirror across from me and  _ this _ . This feels better. Not  _ right _ , per se, but better. I run my hand through my hair a bit, try that out. I don’t hate it.

I cross my legs and, rather than leave myself alone with my rebellious memories, pull out my phone to read on. The best part of reading on a phone, which I used to believe was blasphemous, is that I can read all the  _ actual  _ blasphemous literature I want without my father or stepmother or the kids getting nosy. I suppose I could read  _ The Great Gatsby  _ without too much questioning from the family, but I’d rather avoid it altogether.

I read for a bit, silently sympathizing with Nick, in love with an unattainable man. These long, verbose paragraphs detailing every little aspect of Gatsby’s smiles, the way they make Nick feel… It’s familiar. I read on until I hear someone sit in a chair near me.

I look up, a bit peeved I had to stop just as Gatsby was about to come over for tea, as Nick was about to describe him yet again. (I hate to admit it, but I love those bits.)

Sitting across from me and a chair diagonal is a face, or more, a  _ body _ , I seem to recognize. I pull it out of my memory quickly considering he’s the bloke from the football pitch who helped me up that one time. We meet eyes.

“Hey,” he says slowly, “You go to Watford, right?

I nod. Small talk has never been my strong suit. (Snarking is, but there’s no use for that here.) I wish I could go back to my book. I wish I could keep staring at this guy.

“You’re bloody good on the pitch,” the boy says, and, after a pause, “Well, usually.”

I crack a smile. “I’ve never stumbled of my own accord.”

“Sure you haven’t.”

Putting my phone fully down, I resituate myself in my chair. “Like you never fall.”

The boy smiles and leans forward. “Hey, I take responsibility for my fumbles. And, no, I don’t usually fall.”

We both huff out what might be a laugh. I truly look at him for the first time since we started talking. Crowley, he’s attractive. In a way I’ve never seen before. (At least it takes my mind off… you know.)

“I’m Charlie, by the way” and even the way he says his name is attractive.

“Baz.”

He nods slowly. Then… “Hey, isn’t your roommate—”

“Yes,” I say quickly, “but I’d really rather not.” I hope I didn’t say that in a harsh way. I’m afraid I wouldn’t know speaking kindly if I was hit over the head with it.

Charlie doesn’t seem to be bothered. “Ah, I get it. My old roommate was a nightmare.”

“Old roommate…?”

He smiles a bit and comes over to sit next to me, seemingly without even thinking about it. “Yeah, I just left school.”

“Oh. Congratulations.”

“Thank you,” he smiles again. Crowley, he just won’t stop, will he? “Even though I left, I’m still seventeen because my birthday’s just at the end of the cutoff for the year. I have to explain that a lot. Are you leaving next year?”

My mind speeds up faster than my mouth and I end up saying “I’m sixteen” without giving it enough thought, without quite knowing why.

He just nods. 

I know I’m a good liar. I’ve had to do quite a lot of it in my time. Pretending I’m a year older really isn’t that much of a problem for me.

“Shame that I won’t get to play you again. I wasn’t lying when I said you were good.” He taps my arm lightly and I bite the inside of my cheek. This is hell. Being around other boys is hell. 

“Why don’t we play?” I blurt out. (Crowley, what is wrong with me today?)

He looks confused, so I say this before I think at all. “There’s so much grass here and I know they have a football, why don’t we pass one around?”

His grin is all the answer I need.

Maybe I’m doing this because I have nothing better to do with my time. Maybe I’m doing this because I’m a self-sabotaging piece of shit who can’t currently help himself around a pretty boy. Maybe I’m still trying to keep my mind away from that goddamn memory in my room.

I don’t know. All I know is that I’m standing on mushy grass in a secluded little area of the club and Charlie is grinning again because he hasn’t stopped and he’s talking to me about how hard class got at the end of the year, how he’s not nearly as smart as I must be because he struggled all through school and barely passed but none of that matters because he’s much more into football than anything else. 

“I’m going to school for it,” he offers, bouncing a bit on his feet as he waits for me to pass him the ball. I do.

“I can’t imagine doing that.” I truly can’t.

He passes the ball back to me, hair floating atop his head as he gains air. “I think you have to do whatever you want to do most. Nothing matters but your passion.”

I think about that for a moment. I can’t imagine doing  _ that _ , either. I’ll never get to the point where I can do whatever I want, whatever makes me  _ happy _ . (It’s ridiculous to even think about it.)

“It’s like my best friend,” he continues, “he’s marrying his girlfriend the moment they can move into their own place. That’s all he wants. I can’t imagine doing  _ that _ , but… it makes him happy.”

“You’re too focused on football?” I ask, trying to will my brain away from thoughts of an early death or a life in service of someone else’s dreams.

“No, dude, I’m gay,” he laughs and I almost stop moving altogether.

I’ve never met another gay person. I’ve heard about them online and read about them in books but  _ never  _ in my life have I heard those words said in front of me. “I’m gay.”  _ Merlin and Morgana, I love it. _

I just nod. Take a moment. Look around. No one’s there. Fuck it.

“Me too.”

Charlie looks up from the ball to grin wide at me. “Cool.”

We keep on playing and talking like nothing’s happened, like I haven’t just done one of the scariest things I’ve ever done in my life, like I’m not falling to pieces right now.

_ Cool _ .

We play and talk until his phone chimes and he stops cold. “Oh, shit, my parents want to leave.”

I look him in the eyes, a silent prayer that he’ll see my desperation and he’ll understand. He just smiles something pitiful and picks up the ball, heading to put it back in the cupboard we got it from just inside.

We walk side by side in silence, he puts the ball away, and he turns to me. “I’m glad I got to talk to you today,” he says with this genuine smile that should sicken me, but instead makes my head feel airy.

I let my lips turn up just a bit.

I go to close the cupboard and the moment the door clicks closed, I see and feel his hand come up and rest on my wrist lightly. I look at him. He at me.

We say nothing.

He kisses me. 

I freeze for a moment, feeling all these feelings at once, but I try to kiss him back, moving a bit closer.

His hand slides down slightly, holds mine. His lips are soft. I feel  _ strange _ . Not because I like it too much, not because this is the answer to all my problems, but because it isn’t. It just feels detached. There are lips on mine. It feels… fine.

He pulls away and grins at me, like always and I try to smile back.

“Look me up when you leave school,” he says, as if I won’t be dead by then. I nod as if I believe that.

Then, he leaves.

The moment I’m alone, the moment my eyes close for just an instant, I’m back in my room.

I’m staring at Snow because he doesn’t even see me, I’m not on his radar.

_ It was one of those rare smiles with a quality of eternal reassurance in it, that you may come across four or five times in life.  _ But, with Snow, you come across it weekly. He’s special. Chosen.

I want to feel what he’s feeling. I want to feel him.

Maybe that kiss wouldn’t be so  _ fine _ . Maybe it’d be that earth-shattering crap I need.

If I think about this any more, I’ll explode.

I force myself to snap out of this memory, force myself to walk back into the little room with the couches, force myself back into that awful sweater vest, and force myself to sit.

I look in the mirror across from me, at my hair that sits a bit higher than normal. I push it down. The moment is over. Time to go back, Basilton.

I do not think about Charlie much after that. I don’t see a point.


	2. two

It’s the winter holiday of my penultimate year of school and I cannot be in my house any longer.

The kids have too much energy and none of us have the strength to deal with it and I think if I have to sit at the dining table for one more meal, I’m going to explode.

So, I put on some jeans and a plain white button up, I grab my copy of  _ The Picture of Dorian Gray  _ and I leave the house. I tell no one. They’ll figure it out on their own. (Or, they won’t. Maybe they won’t look for me.)

I do not want to hear my own name or see my own face tonight. For just a few hours, I want to be someone else. 

There’s a diner not far from the house, on a nice little street with uniform buildings and fairy lights strung about, and I’m heading there. I have this vision of sitting in a corner booth and blending into the window and sipping tea, and that’s just what I do.

A hostess at the front tells me to sit wherever I want and a corner booth is calling my name so I slide in, pull out my book, and read.

I have little visions of what things should be like often, but they’re always just moments in the future. I never plan ahead. Why would I? What could that possibly do for me?

I never even dream about it. 

That’s not true. I did, once. I was young and I was stupid and it was the summer after my fifth year, so nothing was right. I was in my room, not at home but at Watford,  _ my  _ room, and I saw myself like a film, like I was watching. I was older, last year of school, raised face; I’d lost the roundness all kids have. I looked… happy. No permanent scowl, no darkened eyes. I barely recognized myself.

The bathroom door opened and light poured out along with Snow, grinning at me. I followed his body with my eyes like I didn’t care if he saw. (I guess I didn’t.) He came over, sat beside me on my bed, and took my hand. I know it was a dream, but, Crowley, it felt real; rough and tender and gentle. I turned to him. He to me. We watched each other for a moment, I watched us.

I asked, “Are you going to kill me, Simon?”

He answered, “Yes.”

Then he kissed me. It wasn’t like with Charlie, wasn’t like how I thought it’d be when I gave myself glimpses just to torture. It felt so fucking right.

I watched us pull away, watched his lashes rest on his cheeks for a moment. I smiled, held a finger to my lips. 

Then Snow muttered something, pulled out his sword, and stabbed me with it.

I watched myself bleed out and I watched myself grin the entire time.

I looked truly happy.

I haven’t dreamt of the future since. Apparently, my brain learned its lesson.

At least this new vision came true; my legs uncomfortably crossed under this low table, hoping my knee isn’t grazing gum. I read on about Dorian and his lack of outward shame, his secret second life of terror and hiding. 

I don’t much find myself relating to him, but this… I get this. Part of me wishes I could hide my shame in a secret room and only think about it now and then. Wouldn’t that be easier?

I think of that Oscar Wilde quote, that he wishes he were Dorian, but he knows he’s Basil, the repressed gay painter head-over-heels in love with his muse. I understand that more than I care to admit. (I’m pathetic.)

I look up from my book for just a moment and there, standing at the counter, back to me, is  _ my _ muse. Golden brown hair, freckles up his neck. But… no. It’s not him, not quite. He’s a bit too tall, a bit too thin, and a bit too not at his best friend’s house for the holidays. The boy who caught my eye turns around and, wow, the resemblance is uncanny.

I look away. I shouldn’t look at him anymore. What good’ll that do me?

I turn my attention back down to my book. I read a sentence. I read it again. I retain nothing.

Suddenly, I see a waist above the top of my book and look up. It’s my waiter. It’s him.

“What can I get you?” he smiles and, no, he doesn’t sound anything like him. His voice is more like molasses, like candy floss and sticky carnival asphalt. 

Snow’s… it’s like icy water and campfire smoke mingling in a crucible.

I meet eyes with the waiter, notice that his eyes are a special rainy blue, hate that, and look down slightly. His name tag says “Milo”.

“I’ll just have a black tea,” I mumble, trying to pretend that I’m just too engrossed in my novel.

“What book is that?” I hear him ask, so I force myself to look him in the eyes. I hate it. I maintain it.

I show him the cover, the title. He nods enthusiastically. “I’ve heard of that. Had to talk about Oscar Wilde in class once. Didn’t he go to jail?”

I bite the inside of my cheek. Sure, why not? “Yeah,” I say, “for ‘gross indecency between male persons.’” (I’ve done a bit of research. The trials fascinate me to no end.)

Milo and his watery blue eyes brighten. “God. Can’t imagine living in a world like that.”

“Arguably, not much has changed,” I say pessimistically, looking back down at the swimming words on the page.

“Well, yes, but, at least I don’t have to worry about being thrown in jail.”

My eyes dart back up to his. He’s just looking at me. He didn’t misspeak, I can tell.

I raise an eyebrow. “That’s true.”

“I- I don’t read enough,” he interjects quickly like he’s worried of losing my attention, “I always try to, but I can barely get through a chapter of anything. I always wish someone could just read to me”

I nod. “There’s always audiobooks.”

He nods.

Silently, he stares at me for a moment and then moves his head a bit like he’s shaking off the conversation. (I can’t take my eyes off his hair. It’s just like his, that length he’s at during the middle of the year.)

“So, just one black tea?” 

“Yes, thank you.”

He keeps his gaze on me for a few more seconds before smiling a bit and walking off.

I try to think nothing of it. (I am thinking so many things, my brain is full.)

After minutes of trying to read and mostly failing, my brain no longer equipped to deal with the flowery prose, Milo brings me my tea. 

It’s a wordless exchange.

Until, “I like your hair.”

He says this to me. 

I meet eyes with him again. (I’m getting better at it.) 

He’s looking me up and down. I let myself smile. “I like yours.”

And then he ducks his head and walks off.

Is this what flirting feels like? Is this it? It feels clinical, like I’m making these choices deliberately with my brain. My heart’s not in it. (He is really fucking cute, though.)

I can barely read the rest of the night. 

I sit with my tea growing cold, trying to get through this chapter, and the next time I look up, there’s no one else in the diner, and the man behind the register glares at me. I get the message and finish my tea quickly, throwing money down on the table and walking out.

Once outside, I look around frantically. I don’t want to go home just yet. I’m not ready.

So, I find a metal bench and sit, sucking air through gritted teeth as I feel the cold beneath me. I pull out my book and try to read once more, with more success this time. 

I let my mind wander only for a moment to wonder if  _ I’ll  _ age like Dorian, stay the same forever in that shameless way he does, but I don't dwell on it. (I don’t dwell on anything vampire-related. It’s better if I don’t let myself actually think on it.)

Then, I hear something beside me. Someone.

I look up and, yes, there’s Milo, smiling at me, grey scarf tied around his neck and beanie covering his beautiful hair.

“Hi,” he says timidly.

“Hi.”

“Can I sit?” He gestures to the rest of the bench. I nod and put my book down.

“I’m trying to get through  _ Frankenstein _ right now,” he offers, gesturing to my book.

“For school?” I look up at him.

“Uh, no. I’m out of school. Just… for fun, I guess.”

I turn towards him, one knee up on the bench. “I think the doctor is definitely gay.”

His nose is red from the cold, but his cheeks glow as well when I say this. “You think?”

“Oh,” I say, “I know. That relationship with his friend. Plus, y’know, he did build a beautiful, anatomically-correct man for nothing but his own pleasure.”

Milo laughs and I like watching his face break open. I laugh a bit with him.

We talk about  _ Frankenstein _ and the many number of allegories one can apply to the man and his monster for quite a while, so long that I forget how cold I am.

“Can I see you again?” he asks out of nowhere, in the middle of an anecdote I’m trying to get out about the Oedipus complex.

I stare into his eyes that are not quite  _ his _ , but almost.

“I don’t think so.”

I hope he sees the disappointment in my expression.

“Oh, God,” he says, face falling, “Are you straight?”

I almost laugh. “Crowley, no.”

“What was that?” he asks and I meet his eyes again. 

Oh. Right. “Nothing. I just pick things up from books sometimes, words like that.”

His smile returns, but only a bit. “So… why?”

I want to give him a good reason, I really do, but I don’t know what it would be. I don’t know how to tell him a lie and I certainly can’t tell him the magician boarding school nightmare truth. So, I decide to tell him neither.

“Can I kiss you?”

I don’t know why I say this. Don’t ask me why I say this. 

His eyes widen a bit, but then he nods and I don’t think about it, I just pull him in by the front of his jacket and kiss him. For a moment, we’re both a bit stiff, but then he puts his mittened hand on my neck and we let ourselves enjoy it.

It makes my stomach feel like pizza dough and my head feel like water vapor and my toes feel like lightning and I’m not sure I’ve ever felt so many things at once.

His red nose bumps into mine, cold, and I faintly laugh.

For just a moment, I let myself imagine. I’m kissing him.

I see us from an outside view, like my dream. Golden hair and black hair from above. 

I love you, Simon Snow. I love you and I’m kissing you and I don’t care about anything else. Let the whole world rot. Who fucking cares?

Nothing matters but you.

_ You are made to be worshipped. _

Everything else is iconoclastic.

I kiss him until my fingers go numb. 

When we pull away, I keep my eyes closed for just a moment.

When I open them, I remember. In front of me, eyes of river and of sea. Milo. He’s grinning. I hope I’m grinning, too.

I let him go, lean away, and stand. 

I walk away and don’t look back.

I let myself think about him every day after that. He was almost perfect.


	3. three

I’m kissing Simon Snow. Can’t believe I get to say that, but here I am, lying on the floor in front of the fireplace and he’s kissing me and I’m kissing him and we’ve been doing this for ages and I never want to stop. 

He’s lying on top of me and I can’t believe I can feel him breathing right now. His hand is in my hair, my hand is on his neck. I’m trying to do everything I’ve imagined doing. I’m trying to fulfill the fantasies in case tonight is the only night I get to have this. I don’t even care right now.

He leans over just a bit, so I lean to keep up with him, but I feel something below me, digging into my side.

I stop for a moment and pull out a book from under me, my battered, well-loved copy of  _ Maurice. _ He laughs into my chest and I laugh into his hair. 

Snow looks at me, inches away, for a glorious moment until I pull him into a kiss again.

This feels exactly how it should. Not how I imagined it, but, Crowley, does it feel right. 

It’s so right.

I think of myself last year, last week, lying on this same ground and  _ wishing _ . I remember staring at the ceiling, like Maurice, wishing the world could understand that I am not its enemy, wishing I could understand that same thing,  _ understanding nothing except that man has been created to feel pain and loneliness without help from heaven. _

I think of every time I read a book, longing to change this course set out before me, hoping against hope that I could break the cycle. 

I don’t want to be Nick Carroway, discreet, finding men at parties and never thinking about it again, keeping myself with a woman who might make me even the slightest bit happy.

I don’t want to be Basil Hallward, so in love with a man that I confess it far before I ever should, naive to the consequences.

I don’t want to be Maurice Hall, secure in my identity but knowing that I will never be able to be myself.

No. I don’t want to be them.

I want to be Basilton Pitch, himself for everyone and no one and deeply in love with Simon Snow.

And I whisper into the kiss, enough so that even Snow can’t hear, “Simon,  _ shall we rewrite history? _ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading this ! i hope it wasn't boring or terrible ... anyway i'd love feedback as always. love u!


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